Journaling my heartache

“I must sort things out in solitude, introspectively, with blank sheets of paper on which to record my thoughts.”1


Pondering the inner state of my heart became a way to express and work through tumultuous feelings. The spiritual tug of war raging inside of me needed a place to be sorted out so the toxic sludge wouldn’t destroy me from the inside out. Writing became my therapy. I wanted to be authentic and open with God, but often found myself downplaying my pain and emotions in various degrees because their pure rawness would have upset my equilibrium beyond recovery. I quickly found that writing had to be a gentle unfolding of the layers inside. To rip open the heart before its time would be cruel and unbearable. So, gently I began to expose the ache inside.


September 22, 2010

I’m feeling bombarded with unwanted emotions—anxiousness, sadness, restlessness and irritability. I wish I could break away from persistent darkness. The great sadness”2 forever changes the way I look at life. Everything gets filtered through this pain. It rears its head at unpredictable times; it ambushes and destroys. It is sneaky and disguises itself in blame, indifference, hatred, anger and irritability. Zach said I need bigger sunglasses because I cry so much-- I suppose that would be a pretty good idea. The days when I cry feel good, like I’m grieving the way I’m supposed to. But some days, the only way I can access the sadness is by watching a really sad movie. The dam of stored pain releases, but then I can’t stop the searing sadness coming in uncontrollable waves.
Like the Psalmist David, I thirst for the living God, but there is no water. I’m tired of my tears being my food day and night. I remember worshipping with joyful, thankful shouts, but those times of closeness with God are a distant memory. Now, it’s different. I cannot imagine ever feeling joy again. But then surprisingly, I find faith, and though weak from being under siege, it glimmers ever so faintly—hope flickers, “deep calls to deep” (Ps 42:7 NIV) and I sense his faithful love by day, only to buckle under grief again, pleading, kicking and screaming at God, “Why have you forsaken me?” (Ps 22:1)
And so it is with the ebbing and flowing of grief, back and forth, despair and faith, faith and despair, each connected, both ugly and beautiful at the same time. The jagged ugliness of it attacks day and night, but in a perverse way the pain soothes. It has a way of making memories more poignant and intimate, of activating the heart’s longings while at the same time, being the most awful of all emotions. Grief is complicated, uncharted territory because its path weaves and twists in unpredictable ways. C.S. Lewis alludes to the strange comfort of grief: “I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest.”3
Bruised faith feels wounded, unwholesome, less then and distorted. Nothing pure exists in me anymore, only mangled destroyed bits of what used to be. Stripped of God’s presence, I forget what his loving kindness looks like. He has become a stranger to me. “When I pay careful attention to what goes on in my mind from moment to moment, I come to the disconcerting discovery that there are very few moments in my day when I am really free from these dark emotions and feelings.”4


Note: All references are cited in my book (End Notes)